An Abandoned Military Cemetery
It was the twilight of spring, and the Red Maple
leafed out. Walking up the old dirt drive, I counted
the dandelions growing in ruts. Some markers
leaned forward, and others tilted backward.
Most of the tombstones formed post-like shadows.
The names on the markers are those of the men
who died in the Revolutionary or Civil War.
Of course, I wanted to know about them,
but the only traces were by wild hogs
who rooted the tops of the graves.
Along the perimeter of the cemetery stood tall,
green pines, and in the middle of the graveyard,
the bees swarmed in a red maple. Three robins
landed beside the tree. They were not singing
as they strutted between graves.
Is it a sign of respect? I asked a gaunt mongrel.
He stopped near me and sniffed the pig’s footprint.
Ignoring me, he did his morning business
on a fallen gravestone. I wonder what made
the men defend the mysterious tree of equality.
As the dog circled the base of the maple, I thought
about soldiers doing ordinary things, fetching water,
or cutting wheat. I thought about them shaving
or bandaged in rough cloth. I thought about them
lifting their weapons and swallowing their fear.
Today, these inhabitants of forgotten graves share
their quarters with the creatures of the soil.
When a cold wind brings rain,
the mongrel follows the old road forming a U
while a flock of crows grumbles in the maple,
and the town talks about the summer crops.
Twilight Vision
the excavation site of Calle de Luna Subdivision 1990
Twilight on this job site,
Santa Ana winds cross the hillside
and, near the brush line, a dolphin bone.
Lifting it, I wave it in an arc,
and it eclipses the setting sun.
The autumn breeze brings weariness
and I dream-walk into the past.
As the quail cry out from
behind clumps of white sage,
I ride the surf into the dolphin’s memory
of rip tides, moon tides,
tides of the equinox.
In the distance, it sees
the sun set as white heat,
white light, and now
the rim of the horizon
marked star by star.
The Cruise Ship Crawls Its Way Toward Amsterdam
The cruise ship crawls eastward as the sea propels
itself one wave at a time. Lights of freighters glow
as they follow the trade route west. It seems easy
to see the shapeless green water
as a shadowy meadow with dark shapes.
Occasionally, a wave flashes its white cap
as it moves across this broad and deep channel.
While the ship cuts through waves,
I turn out the lights in my stateroom and step
onto my balcony with just enough space
between reality and me.
Below, a group of passengers walk towards the stern.
Some are retired. Others are newlyweds
or teenage lovers. It seems existence rises and falls
with the rhythm of the North Sea, whose purpose
is to flow with the current.
On my balcony, a steel rail separates the world
of iron from shadows, and I listen to a creature
of whispers, the wind. It slips away from the seascape
as the night clears. Then, the ship and sea become quiet
as if waiting for me to walk through the meadow
of white caps and into myself.
